Let Go
by cloak of nettles
Summary: Wilson has too many secrets. One of them might turn out to be fatal. ChaseCameron, possible HouseWilson, depression, badly researched medical stuff, attempted lack of humor. Enjoy!
1. Wilson

Title: Let Go

Author: Me, Cloak of Nettles, your lord and master, you are all my bitches, fit only to be ground into the dust, don't touch the boyfriend, et cetera, et cetera.

Summary: Wilson keeps too many secrets. One of them will cause a fatal situation that will not be resolved.

Pairings: Mild HouseWilson (FEAR THE SUBTEXUAL CANON HOMOEROTICISM), definite ChaseCameron, WilsonJulie...the basics.

Notes: This will change points of view. Oh, and usually I write very funny original fiction—this is my first real attempt at fanfiction. And at real serious stuff.

Warnings: Eventual death, angst, present tense, Julie is a bitch (dude, she so sounds like one), mild OOC-ness for House, very badly researched medical stuff, Chase's POV written as diary entry, Wilson totally depressed, attempted complete lack of humor. ENJOY!

* * *

WILSON'S POV

If you look at my patient evaluations, you'd probably get a nice, happy idea of what I'm like. "Dr. Wilson is an incredibly kind man." "Dr. Wilson made my experience less of an ordeal and more of a mere obstacle." "Dr. Wilson is pleasant and open and would never hide anything from a patient, or, I believe, a colleague or friend."

That last one made me laugh and cry at the same time: horrible unhappy laughter mixed with terrible, throat-burning hiccup-sobs. I have nothing to hide, according to sixteen-year-old Eleanor G. Kamke, who had a thankfully mild case of leukemia.

I'm sorry, Ellie (she told me to call her that), but I hide lots of things.

For example, I hide the prescription for Prozac that Dr. Hayek from Psychiatry kindly wrote out for me. I paid her in cash because I didn't want a bill coming home, where someone else might find it. I hid two affairs from two wives and from my friends. I hid the tiny, straight scars that I made by putting them on folds of skin and my hips.

I hid the reason why I developed a subdural hematoma and why, before that, I wouldn't go home unless I was forced to.

I lied. I hid. I pretended nothing was wrong.

I hid too well, and now I'm lost.

The big thing that I hid was that my wife, Julie Annaliese Berhardt-Wilson, hit me. I don't mean she'd give me a clout after too many glasses of wine; I mean that she'd actually knocked me unconscious a few times. It's always for trivial things: being fifteen minutes later than I said I would be, forgetting to do the laundry, stuff like that. One her face got that look and she started nibbling her top lip, I knew I was in for it. I couldn't try to fight her. It's like what Steven King says in _Misery_: "You couldn't kill the goddess. Dope her temporarily with bourbon, maybe, but not hill her." Or in _Lord of the Flies_: "Fancy thinking the Beast was something you could hunt and kill!"

Julie is the goddess, Julie is the Beast. A paradox that only served to strengthen her power. I once thought I could kill that raging divine monster with kindness: cutting down on hours, making nice dinners, bringing her flowers after work, but she saw what I was trying to do and it only got worse.

That's when I started putting in extra hours at the hospital. Long shifts. Holiday shifts. Not leaving until Cuddy or a janitor gently pushed me out. I didn't want to go home. When I was forced out of the building I would sit in the parking lot in my car and listen to Cat Stevens and sleep and stare into space and wonder if I could summon up the courage to tell someone.

When I finally did get home I couldn't escape the wrath of the beast. It was getting a lot worse and a lot more painful than it had two years ago, when we first got married.

This story takes place during one of those long shifts.

It does not get any better.

* * *

It's a pretty slow day: only one new patient for me, and House doesn't need any of my expertise.

I sit in my office, trying to decipher third-quarter budget reports, when Lisa comes in.

She smiles beatifically at me. She is wearing a terrible red blazer. "Go home, Jimmy. You've done more than enough this week."

Home. It's the day before Hanukkah. I haven't bought anyone presents. Julie would be mad that I haven't started grilling the potatoes for the latkes. Dear God, no.

"It's okay," I lie, shuffling the papers nervously. "I want to get this done."

"Aw, come on. Budget can do that. Come on. House is being let out early too. You can go do boring masculine-bonding things."

House would want to go downtown for lunch. Julie goes downtown for lunch. If she sees me, or my car, or House, or his car, she'll think I've been lying to her about going to work. "Well, Dr. Eternal-Servitude-God-I-Hate-My-Job-Don't-Fire-Me can go. I'm fine."

Her expression goes from mild cheerfulness to frank puzzlement. "Jimmy, you've been here for the past twenty-eight hours. You should go home. Hang out with Julie. I'm sure she misses you."

"Well…"

That one word. That one-syllable, four-letter word. I had accidentally showed true emotion: a glimmer of actual fear.

Lisa's eyebrows go up slightly. She dips her head slightly to one side. "Jimmy, is everything okay?"

"Yes," I say. No fear in this one word.

She doesn't sound convinced when she says, "All right. If you want to cop out early just tell me." The blazer is decorated with sequins. Walking away, they tingle with color. It's like a beacon of light, hurting my eyes.

I have a bad headache suddenly. The lights in my office are too bright. Too bright.

I get up to turn them off.

I fall down.

I can't see.

I can't get up.

I can' t think anymore.

I…


	2. Cuddy

CUDDY'S POV

* * *

Something's wrong. I can tell. The poor guy's been here more than a full day. Most everybody else would jump at the chance to go home, but Jimmy just smiled and went pale and said thanks but no thanks. That would, in itself, trouble me, but then his tone…God, he sounded _afraid._

I wonder why.

I motor down the hallway and catch up with House, who is leaving to have lunch at a fancy restaurant, also known as Chick-Fil-A. He sees me and hobbles away faster.

I catch him easily. "I want to ask you something."

"What? Hurry up. I'm hungry."

"Do you know of a reason why Dr. Wilson is afraid to go home?"

He turns and looks at me, obviously confused. "What?"

Hes been here for the past 28 hours. I told him he could go home and he went white and said no, he wanted to finish the budget reports, which would take him another five hours. And when I mentioned Julie he just turned whiter. Did they have a fight?

House shrugs. I can tell hes a little worried by the pace of his hobbling: slower. Dunno. But, come to think of it, hes beenkind oferratic lately.

"Erratic? Like how?"

"Well, he's not so talkative anymore. Usually you can't get him to shut up with his witty Wilde-ish one-liners. Seems a lot more worried, and gets jumpy a lot more often. And I've seen him a couple of times in his car, just sitting there. Looking kind of spaced out. And now there's the not-going-home-thing. Do you think that…" He sighs heavily. "Oh Christ. Do you think he might have a globomastalia?"

Globomastalia. He fits the symptoms profile. "Damn," I say, and rub my forehead. "The fact that it's possible just…But we shouldn't be so morbid. Maybe it was just a fight."

"But if it was a _fight_, he'd just go home and face her wrath, not stay here. It's something else. Globo, or—oh, _crap_! Do you think he might be on something?"

I run over the symptoms again. Spacing out. Lack of communication. Nervous. Mood swing. "Oh, vomitous day. It's either one, the other, or both."

House begins to hobble back to Dr. Wilsons office. I follow him, shaking my head.

Poor Jimmy.

We get to his office. Chase is there. Unfortunately, Chase is not having an intelligent conversation with Dr. Wilson. Chase is lifting up Wilson's eyelid and shining a pen-light into it.

What the hell happened? House barks, dropping the cane and limping fiercely to Jimmys side, his face contorted.

"I don't know! I just came in and he was on the floor and…he's in a coma, House."

I grab the phone on his desk and call a nurse.

It's a tumor.

Oh God.

Poor Jimmy.


	3. Chase

CHASE'S POV:

* * *

7:20: Bad thing happens: I set curtains on fire making tea. Manage to douse curtains, but succeed in melting drying wallpaper paste off of wall. Landlady will kill me.

7:45: Great thing happens: Get call from Cameron. Am informed that last night was lots of fun and she is ending shift the same time I am. After hanging up, I dance around and go woo! until Mrs. Petska downstairs bangs on ceiling with broom. Love pissing off Petska.

3:10: Terrible thing happens: I go into Dr. Wilson's office. Discover him face-down on floor, not moving. Force does not wake him up. Shone light in eyes, poked him, checked responses—is seven on Glasgow coma scale. _Seven_! House gets him an MRI. Dr. Wilson has a subdural hematoma caused by recent trauma. Very recent: two days ago or sooner. How the hell did he get that?

4:17: Excellent thing happens: Cameron comes into office where I am sitting alone doing paperwork. Informs me that winter break is coming up and she will follow me. Overjoyed to learn that we will be going to Gstaad. (WOO!)

4:20: Horrible thing happens: While prepping Dr. Wilson for emergency hematoma evacuation surgery, Foreman discovers fresh and healed sutures in inconspicuous places all over Wilsons body. Lacerations smooth, straight, deep enough to draw blood. Dr. Cuddy bursts out into tears. Cameron looks like she will join in. Foreman sighs and looks away. House looks grim and discovers bruises and many half-healed minor breaks and sprains all over body, covered with concealer. Oldest, cracked rib, is about two years old, but has been continually re-broken.

Dr. Cuddy says, "What started two years ago?"

Cameron says, "He got married two years ago."

Foreman says, "God damn it. Well, at least we know where the hematoma is from."

I say, "Bloody Nora. Get her in jail."

House says nothing.

Cuddy calls the cops.

House tells everyone to get out of the room. He needs to be alone with friend.

Peeked in. Saw him stroking Wilson's hand and crying.

5:49: Foreman comes out of operating room looking very worried. Informs us that evacuation surgery successful in removing hematoma, but Dr. Wilson just went down to a six.


	4. Cameron

Thank you to all of my awesome reviewers! You are beyond great! (throws flowers, money, candy, and, for the slashers out there, pictures of my boyfriend and me making out) I'm still going to stick with the alternating POVs, because this is a new style I want to explore. And I realize my grammar is a bit screwed up…again, new style: I'm not used to writing in present tense. (kicks grammar-checker) Damn thing's supposed to, you know, work.

* * *

CAMERON'S POV

Usually emergency surgery is done when the patient in question has just had a windshield wiper driven through their lungs, and thus a thorough examination is often foregone until the patient has been stabilized. Dr. Wilson's hematoma wasn't _as_ serious, but it still necessitated a less-thorough examination.

This speed found only bruises and superficial lacerations. Nothing big. When he didn't come out of his coma, and in fact went down the scale, the examination was a _lot_ more scrupulous.

Found: one ugly, foot-long, half-scabbed gash running from shoulder to mid-back. The triangular shape of the indentation suggests use of a nail, or perhaps a nail file. Not something he could have done himself.

Found: small amount of blood in urine. Cause is apparently bruised kidneys. Normally wouldn't be too serious, but in this case it's adding rabies to AIDS.

Found: localized numbness down the back-gash, suggesting that it might actually _be_ rabies. Luckily, it wasn't.

Found: My half-hour in the lab with a skin biopsy brought a diagnosis, and not a nice one: tetanus. Forget that _luckily _part. Rabies might have been better.

For those illiterate in medical matters, tetanus is not a kind disease. Paralysis floods through your body, radiating from the point of infection to the most severe injuries. So. The hematoma was caused/worsened by slight paralysis of ventricles. After the ventricular paralysis, the disease will—probably has already—begin to work on Dr. Wilson's kidneys and the area around his cracked rib. This means eventual kidney and lung failure. Because the infection was not caught in time with a shot, the prognosis is one horrible word that still drives shards of glass into my soul:

"Terminal."

Cuddy lets out a horrible half-sob, covers her face with her hands, sinks into a chair, begins rattling a chain of swear words. Chase lets out a very un-Chase-like hiccup of emotion and puts his head on the table. Foreman just looks sad, but it's the kind of sad that breaks hearts.

It is probably lucky House isn't here. However, he has just spent the past four hours sitting next to Dr. Wilson and not letting anyone talk to him, so that luck is dubious.

Cuddy stands up, wipes her eyes and nose with the back of her hand. Her expression has shifted from that horrible deep grief to a quiet anger that will eventually bubble up and corrode everything around it.

"I need to talk to our lawyers," she says tersely, and leaves.

I sit down, nearly missing the chair.

There is silence in the office for a few minutes.

Life without Dr. Wilson.

He's one of the most-loved doctors in the whole damn hospital. His patients thank him for telling them that they're going to die, the other oncologists regard him as a sort of god-king, he's managed to keep up a good friendship with Dr. I-Hate-The-Human-Race…it seems that the only people who don't like him are his two exes and his one soon-to-be.

How many cases would we have flubbed without him? How many cancer patients would have been left to the mercy of a cold, unattached doctor? How many would have died?

And now we find out that his wife has effectively murdered him.

And on top of that he's been slicing his skin into ribbons.

Which means, once his kidneys and lungs start stuttering and shutting down, he'll be mostly ineligible for a transplant.

Which is even more tragic. Kidneys are live-organ transplants—

A frighteningly simple and plausible idea races through my head.

"What's his blood type?" I ask. Casual. Stay casual, Allison.

"A positive," says Chase wearily, sliding a hand through his hair.

A positive. What are the chances?

I'm A positive and perfectly healthy. I obviously can't donate a lung, but maybe—

I suddenly realize that I have only thought this over for less than a minute. I think it over again, for another thirty seconds, and decide.

The tetanus will probably go after his kidneys first, destroying them within six months, and thus giving Dr. Wilson six months to live. Or less, depending on his lung function. Dialysis won't do much. He needs a new one, which he definitely will not be getting from the kidney transplant list. Which means that a live organ transplant has to be found.

He's just found one.

I spring up and go chasing after Cuddy.


End file.
